


this love came back to me

by ragesyndrome



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, idk - Freeform, possibly a consort AU, theres a lot of suffering but i promise it gets better, vague happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragesyndrome/pseuds/ragesyndrome
Summary: The one where Bilbo doesn't lose anything at all.(there is a fuckton of angst but I promise it has a happy ending)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from "This Love" by Taylor Swift (seriously, the song is definitely about Thorin surviving BOTFA)

_these hands had to let it go free_

_and this love came back to me_

 

Thorin’s in his arms, hot and bloody, a horrid mockery of Bilbo’s dreams, fantasies of being close, always being closer, but not like this, dear Eru, _not like this._ The battle has had Bilbo shellshocked for hours now, numbed to the sight of so much blood, or so he’d thought; yet the warmth of Thorin is pooling out, drenching Bilbo and melting the snow. And deep, deep within himself, Bilbo is screaming.

He’s beyond propriety as he clutches the dwarf king’s hand, straining to hear the words that labor past Thorin’s lips, each syllable punctuated with shaky sighs. Thorin speaks of parting as friends and Bilbo cannot say _I wanted so much more_ ; Thorin apologizes and Bilbo cannot have it, absolutely not, he can’t stand it. He can feel his anger and hurt threaten to well up again, he knows how obstinate he could be and refuse Thorin’s apologies because _damn it, you cannot ask this of me while you are dying, we should have -time- for this,_ but he knows there is none to be had.

“I’m glad,” Bilbo swears, “I’m glad to have shared in your perils,” and he’s the farthest from glad he’s ever been, he’s in full free-fall now, and despair is opening its maw like a waking dragon inside him, but he must tell Thorin, Thorin _must know_ , that Bilbo does not regret following him. Never, ever.

Thorin smiles beautifully, gracing Bilbo in a fleeting moment of sunshine, and then it’s over.

Bilbo stares, lacking understanding, and Thorin’s hand still holds Bilbo’s but there’s no strength left to it, and in Bilbo’s chest the darkness clicks into place. He cries so hard he can’t breathe; his nose and throat close up with snot and it’s all horrifically inelegant and nothing matters because Thorin lays beside him but _Thorin_ is gone.

The Eagles descend not minutes later, and Bilbo screams at them. Where were they? Where were they when they were needed? How dare they save him all those months ago among wolves and flame only to be too late now, _how dare they?_

They pick up the king’s broken body silently, and wait for Bilbo to join them. He thinks about staying. He thinks about sitting on the ice until he turns as cold as Thorin soon will be, or perhaps mustering the strength to disappear quietly and run far, far away and never be seen again. Maybe he could find people who would never know his past and he could forget.

He clambers onto an Eagle’s back, numb red hands clutching at the great feathers, and he follows Thorin, as always. It was never truly in question.

 

Hours pass, and Bilbo sits unaffected by time, holding himself outside one of the hundreds of medic tents that have popped up. He lost track of Thorin’s whereabouts long ago; once the Eagles had delivered both of them to the mountain, Thorin’s body had been taken away in a great rush, and in the post-battle commotion Bilbo had lost him.

But then, he’d already lost Thorin. Hours ago, on Ravenshill. Days ago, when Thorin’s eyes fell upon the masses of Erebor’s gold. Perhaps before then. Perhaps Thorin was never his to lose.

He feels shame as a faraway entity, knowing he should be helping but lacking the strength to wholeheartedly care. No one bothers him much; no one has the time to take note of a tiny, tear-stained and blood-stained hobbit tucked away to himself. They probably think he’s a lost child, but that if he’s not injured there isn’t time to deal with him yet. Bilbo’s glad of it; he doesn’t think his throat would work if he were called upon to speak. He’d thought he’d become braver along this quest, but now… deep enough, he is only a gentle creature, he knows, and he’s never been strong enough for these hardy people he’s come to love.

There it is, the word he’s tiptoed around in his mind for quite too long now, knowing that admitting it would make it all the more real, and right now, Bilbo thinks he’s had quite enough of reality, thinks he cannot take any more pain. But he does. Because by Eru he _loves_ Thorin, and love is a fragile thing all mixed up with grief and fear but he knows it for what it is nonetheless.

There’s too much to do all around; word has not even spread yet of the king’s death. There’s been no news on Fíli or Kíli either; though Bilbo had seen the elder brother’s fall, he knows there is no hope to be had. If Kíli survived the battle, he’s all alone, and Bilbo knows he has not the strength to provide any comfort.

But for now, no news is brought to him, and he exists almost in a haven in that way, safe and removed. It’s only a matter of time, and then there will be business to manage, and a funeral to arrange, which will likely be very grand and honourable, and Bilbo will hate the whole thing. And he won’t be able to stay with the Company, he knows he cannot bear to watch them grieve their family, their leaders and their kin that they’ve known and loved all their long lives, while he shamefacedly loses his whole sense of self over someone he’s only known half a year, someone he betrayed.

 

Hours pass, and a heavy hand taps Bilbo’s shoulder. He looks up at the stranger, a weary dwarf with the scent of tonic clinging to his clothes and deep bags under his eyes. A doctor, likely. “Adi at your service,” says the dwarf.

“B-Bilbo Baggins at yours,” comes the stuttered reply, Bilbo finding himself able to speak after all.

“Of course you are.” The dwarf’s tone is surly with evident fatigue, but not unkind. “I apologize for not collecting you sooner, I’ve only just been told who you were. You’d better come.” Evidently expecting to be followed, he turns to go. Every muscle in Bilbo’s body screeches at the sudden use, but he follows. Of course he does.

The dwarf named Adi leads Bilbo through a disorienting tangle of tents and stretchers, patients moaning beside corpses, Elves and Dwarves and Men alike. Children, even. And then beyond the masses, up a great stone path, and Bilbo realizes they’re headed into the mountain. “What’s this about?” he pants, barely keeping up with the dwarf’s swift stride.

Adi does not give him an answer until they entered the mountain’s walls. A wave of fear overtakes Bilbo as the shadows set in around them; he knows this is a great kingdom, he knows it can be a place of light and prosperity once it’s restored, but all he’s seen of it is ruin, and evil that took away that which he treasured most.

For him, Erebor is a place of ghosts.

Adi’s in the middle of speaking.

“- could not tell you down there of course, too many ears. This is sensitive information, you understand. His condition is very unstable right now and the chaos this news would set off is the last thing anyone needs at the moment.”

“...Pardon?” Bilbo asks in a daze.

The dwarf looks at him very knowingly, and Bilbo wonders if he’s at all related to Balin, the resemblance suddenly becomes so strong. “The king is alive.”

Bilbo thinks he should be having any number of reactions that would be embarrassing but rather normal; shouting in glee or retching on the floor in surprise. Instead, he blinks, breath escaping him in one great swoosh, the knot of tension in his stomach unclenching just the tiniest bit. “Thorin,” he murmurs as if the very name is the oxygen he needs, and follows Adi over the tumbling messes of rock and ruin.

They approach a chamber very clearly occupied by a good many people, despite the lull of quiet settled as heavy as plate armor over the room. Gandalf’s there, and Oin and Dwalin, and Dain (though Bilbo recognizes him only by his armor and the great braided red beard he’d seen from across the battlefield), and a good lot of other dwarves that Bilbo doesn’t recognize. Though hushed, arguments are clearly taking place, Gandalf looking very put off by something Dain is saying, and Bilbo’s curiosity ticks at that, but his attention is soon diverted.

Dwalin claps a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, eyes startlingly kind, and steers him through the throng of whispering dwarves. And then there’s Thorin.

For one sickening moment, Bilbo thinks this has all been a horrific joke, and that he’s indeed destined to lose Thorin again and again until he loses the ability to hope for anything. But there’s movement to Thorin, if only the very slightest, his chest just barely rising and falling, hardly enough to move a single hair. Bilbo would not have known there was life in him if he’d not been told.

Indeed, he realizes with shame, he’d left Thorin for dead, hadn’t he? Oh, he should have clung, should never have let the dwarf’s hand fall from his. But now, what? What is he to do? Thorin lays unconscious and however quiet they may be, there are about twenty people around them, and whatever spell fell over Bilbo and Thorin on Ravenshill that allowed Bilbo to initiate contact is broken.

Dwalin, of all people, nods encouragingly at Bilbo, mouth set in a grim line, but a softness in his features nonetheless. Goodness, it’s likely the whole Company is aware of Bilbo’s predicament, aren’t they? His face always had a way of betraying him.

Still, Bilbo plucks up his courage (from a limited reservoir, he’s sure, and it’s draining thin). In a rush, he leans into the cot and wraps Thorin’s hand in both of his, though his own two little hands together are not large enough to cover an entire palm. A surge of embarrassment flushes Bilbo red to his ears, as tears fall from him in quite a display before this crowd of mostly strangers. He cries most when he’s angry, but now he apparently cries for a whole host of other reasons as well; he’s not certain which is ruling him most at the moment. He hadn’t known anything could wrack his body worse than feeling Thorin slip away in his arms, but the anxiety of uncertainty, that might indeed be more dreadful.

Dwalin takes his place beside Bilbo and Thorin, still-bloodied hands resting firmly atop the head of his axe, a relaxed yet protective stance. Bilbo pays attention to this because it takes him an achingly long time to let his gaze slide to Thorin’s face; he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to let himself know this is all real. Because if it’s real, then he can lose Thorin _again._

And yet he looks.

Thorin’s eyes are closed in slumber, though the left lid is badly purpled and swollen, and dried blood stains the bags under his eyes, where it had trickled from a forehead cut. The thick ropes of his hair look matted and sticky with blood, and a section of his beard appears to have been shaved to treat a neck wound. Past that, Bilbo dares not look again; the swathes of recently-replaced bandages hide the gaping hole in Thorin’s gut that Bilbo himself had tried to hold together on Ravenshill.

“The princes are alive as well,” says Oin, and Bilbo starts. Good lord. Fíli. How was any of this possible? “It’s not looking good,” Oin goes on grimly. “Kíli’s awake and he’s in a right state over his brother, you can imagine.”

“And Fíli?” Bilbo asks numbly.

Oin hesitates, and Dwalin speaks up for him. “You saw the fall as well as I did, Master Baggins. If he wakes, it’s unlikely he will ever walk.”

“Where are they?”

“A few chambers over,” Gandalf answers, gesturing. “I think Kíli would like to see you, Bilbo.”

Hesitation stays him, and Bilbo unwillingly glances back at Thorin, knowing his conflictions are all too obvious.

“If he wakes, you will be the first to know,” Oin assures him. The choice is made then; if Kíli needs him, Bilbo must be there. Hoping most of the people in the room are too busy to notice, Bilbo quickly presses his lips to the bloodied knuckles in his hands, and then lets Thorin go. It sits inside him, a raw aching, as he follows Oin to the next chamber.

 

He visits Kíli, who is momentarily overjoyed to see the hobbit, and all but knocks Bilbo to the floor as he catapults himself into a hug. The movement clearly takes a lot of effort, as Bilbo suddenly has 250 pounds of muscle and chainmail leaning on him for support. He would buckle under the weight if Oin and other dwarves in the room hadn’t rushed to help Kíli back into bed. The young prince doesn’t look good; aside from the obvious wounds, none of which look quite as lethal as his uncle’s but certainly have an unpleasant yellowishness to them, what hits Bilbo the hardest is the moment Kíli’s smile vanishes and he sees the look in the prince’s eyes - something Bilbo would absolutely call _haunted._

He visits Fíli, and after reassuring Kíli of his older brother’s hardiness, Bilbo sees the blonde dwarf prone and unconscious like a small and broken child, and he weeps. _I’ll do anything for all of you to live,_ he promises. _I need you to be okay._

They’re both quite a bit older than him, the princes, Bilbo knows, but among their own kind they are so very young, and it’s more obvious now than it’s ever been. He’s never particularly wanted for a large family or a host of children, never felt especially parentally inclined. First, he was young and had a whole life ahead to become an adult; then, he was no longer young, and had found that opportunity had mostly swept past him, and he did not reach for it. Better to stay where he was, to be comfortable, to continue at what he knew.

Then a party of dwarves traipsed into his life and changed everything, at exactly the moment he’d thought nothing in his life would ever change again, and now, he’s overwhelmed with the need to protect _this,_ this precious bit of something _more_ that he was lucky enough to find. It’s an awful thing to need something he could lose; he now knows, truly.

 _Fíli will be alright_ , Bilbo says. _We’ll all be okay._ This broken little family he’s somehow found himself a part of. For the first time, Bilbo finds himself thinking that if Thorin doesn’t pull through, Bilbo may have to stay anyway. He doesn’t know how he’ll bear it, beyond the simple fact that he knows he’s needed.

 

For days, Bilbo alternates between the three bedsides of the sons of Durin, with no change from either Thorin or Fíli. He’s no longer abashed to hold any of their hands in front of strangers by this point; propriety is an entirely moot point by now. The medics have learned better than to try to send Bilbo off; personally, Bilbo suspects Dwalin is the answer behind their tolerance, as the surly warrior has taken to guarding the king and princes as religiously as Bilbo does. Dwalin hardly speaks to him, but it’s a comfortable silence, as comfortable as anything can be waiting by deathbeds. The others from the Company spend as much time possible in those chambers as well, though of course Erebor is busy and everyone has their duties. Bombur and Bofur routinely bring food around - meager stews made from the Elves’ greens, but hardy - and Bilbo is astounded to realize that he, a hobbit, has scarcely eaten more than two meals a day.

When the stillness and anxiety becomes too much, Bilbo goes and does what he can to help in and outside the mountain. Though most of the dwarves are dismissive, taking him for a lost Laketown resident, the Company makes sure to keep him protected, one of them always managing to be nearby somehow. Having neither medical experience nor the strength to haul debris, Bilbo takes to the makeshift kitchens and does what he can, working with very little. Negotiations with Laketown have lent them some decent amount of flour, which Bilbo uses to stretch the food into as much nutrition as possible. For what it’s worth, the dwarves he doesn’t know stop turning him down when he approaches with hot bowls.

Kíli continues to regain his strength, although his characteristic playfulness is smothered by anxiety, and he appears to combat that by taking on as much logistical work as he can. Bilbo consoles Kíli as best as he can, and watches the young dwarf prince try to swallow his fear and become a grownup, become _Thorin,_ in the wake of the battle. Bilbo has to remind himself that as childlike as the prince can be, he’s seen horrors before this, horrors that would leave Bilbo quaking. He sits and marvels at the resemblance between Kíli and his uncle as the prince behaves like a king.

Erebor is, of course, in shambles, left to ruin for years and then sieged. With the king and eldest prince indisposed, Kíli and Dain take on everything they can - Kíli confined to bedrest but sending messages and delegating orders while his doctors protest that he needs to sleep. Dain attends countless meetings with Thranduil and with Bard, who has been elected king of Esgaroth, much as he pretends to be a common man. The Elf king is apparently easier to reason with without Thorin’s presence, although this is more a reflection on the high competence of Dain’s advisors than Dain’s own ability to negotiate.

Kíli sleeps little. Bilbo sleeps less. It’s been four days since the battle, though it feels like he’s lived this way for months, a teetering anxious mess, hoping and also despairing to hope.

On the fifth day since the Battle of Five Armies (that’s what everyone’s calling it, an absurdly long name in Bilbo’s humble opinion), the Elvenking himself approaches Bilbo, flanked by seven guards.

“Master Baggins,” says Thranduil with a flourish. “Well met.”

“Well- ah- _mae g’ovannen_ ,” Bilbo remembers his Elvish in a stumble. A flicker and slightly raised eyebrow is all the recognition he gets for that, but he can tell he’s holding his own before the Elvenking.

“I would like to speak privately with you,” says Thranduil, and it is not a question. Patting  down his vest nervously, Bilbo nods, and follows the elves to a less busy area, barely keeping up with their long and elegant strides. When the king appears satisfied with their privacy, he looks at the hobbit again. Bilbo nearly expects Thranduil to stoop down to be level with him; he’d be furious, of course, he _despises_ when Big Folk do that. Thankfully, Thranduil stands at his full height while managing to express a degree of respect, which, frankly, is more than Bilbo would expect to receive.

What takes him by far greater surprise, however, is the offer that the Elvenking makes.

Thranduil opens with assuring Bilbo that this is not the sort of thing he is in the habit of doing, and that he’s well aware of Bilbo’s transgressions in Mirkwood, and that he was unsurprised by Thorin’s inability to reason. He does, however, acknowledge Bilbo’s part in trying to maintain peace and preventing a war between Mirkwood and Erebor. They’re both aware that Erebor would have lost such a war, but Thranduil is tactful enough to admit gratitude it was prevented.

Then Thranduil offers Bilbo a favor. “I do not like to be in anyone’s debt, Halfling. I studied magics and medicines long before this mountain was first mined. If you would have me do so, I’ll do what I can to heal your dwarf king.”

Bilbo blinks, at a loss for words. “Ah? Pardon?” Eloquent.

“I am aware of his current state of health. I am also far older than you know, and I can see your… concerns for him. So that I am no longer indebted to you, I offer my abilities to restore him to health.”

And that's settled.

It's agreed that Thranduil will make good on his promise that evening, for he currently has other matters to attend to, “as I’m sure you also do, Master Hobbit” (which Bilbo does). The Elvenking takes his leave, stone-faced guards flanking in perfect synchronicity, and Bilbo’s hands develop a tremor that he cannot control for nearly the rest of the day. _Thorin._ He is really, truly, going to get Thorin back.

 

They’re about to enter the chamber where Thorin rests. Thranduil’s hand in fact already grasps the doorknob, and an intrinsic sense of wrongness overwhelms Bilbo and all he knows is that if the elf opens that door, Bilbo’s resolve will disintegrate.

“No,” he says.

Thankfully, Thranduil retracts his hand a fraction. In a long, slow movement, the Elvenking turns to gaze down at Bilbo. A pause. “No?” he asks.

Bilbo squinches his eyes shut for a moment, then finds his conviction. He hates every second of it. “Not Thorin,” he says at last. “I want you to heal Fíli.”

It takes a moment for recognition to flicker in Thranduil’s eyes at the prince’s name. “The prince is in a worse state than Thorin, I heard,” he admits.

Bilbo nods. “He is. And his brother needs him. And if - _when_ Thorin wakes up, he’ll need both of his nephews intact.” Focus on that, he tells himself. Think about Fíli and Kíli, the sunshine brothers who were among the first of the Company to include him in their circle of trust, the pair that sleeps cuddled into each other on cold nights and seem to communicate with each other telepathically. Focus on the stern but deep and steady love Thorin has for his nephews, focus on every moment Thorin prioritized their safety over his own.

Bilbo steps around Thranduil, leading him two chambers down to Fíli. This is right. It feels awful, which means it must be right.

Kíli is, of course, at Fíli’s side when they enter the room, settling Bilbo’s confidence that this must be done. As the elf king follows Bilbo, Kíli starts up with alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” says Bilbo quickly. “Thranduil is here to help. I asked him to.”

“But he doesn’t care about us-” Kíli begins, confused.

Bilbo bites back tears. “He’s doing this as a favor to me. He can help Fíli.” At that, Kíli accepts Thranduil’s presence, returning to his brother’s side. He allows room for Thranduil to approach, though his eyes are hard, protective.

Thranduil looks over Fíli’s prone form. “His body, I can mend. Whether he wakes will depend on his strength of will-” at this, Kíli’s eyes flare, “-but I can aid the journey to consciousness if he chooses to take it.”

Bilbo sits on the edge of the cot, overwhelmed. “Just do what you can.”

They hear a knock on the door just then. Bilbo jumps up, ready to tell off whoever it is, but the door opens before he gets to it, and Gandalf rushes into the room. Of course.

“Mithrandir,” Thranduil says in greeting.

Gandalf takes it in, Kíli and Thranduil together at Fíli’s side, and Bilbo, on the verge of collapsing, halfway to the door, frozen.

“Well, my dear Bilbo,” says Gandalf. “You are certainly full of surprises, incurring the will of elf kings. Now, if you don’t mind, you and Master Kíli should take your leave for the moment. Leave Thranduil and I to aid Fíli.”

Bilbo gapes, and Kíli protests adamantly, but Thranduil only raises an eyebrow, hardly seeming surprised. Perhaps they agreed upon this earlier, though Bilbo thinks it more likely that Gandalf simply knows everything about everyone else’s business, and that the Elvenking is beyond bewilderment at such things.

It takes some convincing to get Kíli out of the room, but at last Gandalf and Thranduil are alone with Fíli. Bilbo knows that Kíli would be willing to lay on the floor and peer under the crack of the door if no one stopped him, so he pulls at Kíli’s arm, and they go to wait by Thorin’s cot instead.

 

Bilbo doesn’t know how long it takes; it feels like hours before they hear the door of Fíli’s chamber start to creak open. Immediately, Kíli is off at the sound; Bilbo follows cautiously. When he reaches Fíli’s chamber, he’s greeted by a dear sight:

Kíli has, apparently, thrown himself into Fíli’s side, and Fíli, marvelously, sits up, already having two pillows propped up behind to support him; he looks weak, cheeks sunken in and weary, his normally carefully-maintained golden braids a disheveled mess. But having his little brother all but beat the tenuous life out of him in a hug appears to be exactly what he needs, as his eyes light up with vigor.

Tears spring to Bilbo’s eyes; batting them away does little. He is still, he knows, a deeply unsettled mess of anxiety. But here, right here, is what makes the fear of love and loss bearable, at least.

Bilbo looks at Gandalf curiously. The old wizard has hardly been seen the last few days, always rushing here and there with much business to attend to, and Bilbo hasn’t had the chance to talk to him since the morning following the battle. Gandalf had found him then on a hill outside the mountain, hands shaking too much to light his pipe, and the wizard had lit it for him and offered companionable silence. Now, Gandalf catches his gaze, ancient blue eyes flickering with _something_ Bilbo cannot define; he only knows that Gandalf certainly sees right through him. But the wizard is then distracted by the brothers’ antics, and Bilbo says nothing.

The Elvenking draws himself up, though it is clear the magic has drained him. He lifts his brows, in a manner that makes Bilbo think he’s _trying_ to look disdainful, but cannot quite manage it. All composure and sweeping cloaks, Thranduil approaches Bilbo.

“Understand this gift, Master Hobbit,” he says sternly. “I am not in the habit of healing Dwarves; I would do this for no less than one I call Elf-friend.” He then removes one of many pins from his robes: a delicate-looking thing of entwined silver and gold, resembling a flowering tree, and extends it toward Bilbo.

A hush falls over the room, Fíli and Kíli watching with mouths slightly open, Gandalf with knowing eyes. Awkwardly, Bilbo takes the pin and clasps it to his tattered vest, flushing and stuttering. “Oh, goodness, ah, thank you,” and then, remembering his manners, _“Le fael_.”

Thranduil nods, and some of his typical aloofness appears to be tempered by respect. “You are always welcome in my kingdom the Greenwood, Master Halfling. There will be no need to hide among shadows and burgle from my guards again. _Boe i’waen. Na l_ _û e-govaned v_ _în.”_

Fíli and Kíli burst out laughing as Thranduil takes his leave. Bilbo resignedly decides that their ability to find humor is probably more important than his self-esteem among elf kings.

 

After he acclimates to the sheer relief at Fíli’s health, the next few days are torturous for Bilbo, as he waits for Thorin to pull through. “Come on, come on,” he pleads in hushed murmurs at Thorin’s side. “I told Thranduil you were strong enough to do this on your own.” He wonders if Thorin can hear him in his slumber - hopes that sheer spite, that proving himself before the Elvenking, might be enough to motivate Thorin into wakefulness.

But Thorin sleeps.

 

For three more days, Bilbo lives like this, hardly leaving Thorin’s side. He only does leave now to eat when food does not come his way. He is on his way to obtain some form of sustenance when a stranger dwarf approaches him.

“You are Master Bilbo Baggins?” the dwarf asks. Bilbo nods. “Dolkeg at your service. Quickly now! The king has requested your presence.”

Bilbo, forsaking all manners, says nothing, only runs past the dwarf named Dolkeg, runs down the halls he’s come to know well, runs to Thorin.

 

Bilbo would not have known Thorin was awake had he not been told. All in a rush entering the chamber, he finds himself halting awkwardly a foot away from the bed, hands wringing, wracked with uncertainty. His throat isn’t working properly.

“Bilbo is here,” Kíli says softly, and at that, Thorin slowly opens his eyes. Heavy-lidded bright blues turn on Bilbo, soft and achingly tired, and Bilbo lets out a soft _whoosh_ of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Thorin’s fingers twitch with effort, and Bilbo takes the signal, clasps the king’s hand in his as he’s done for days now, but now, to see the subtle response in Thorin’s face as they touch, it sets Bilbo’s heart alight.

There’s some awkward coughing behind them, Gandalf ushering nearly everyone out and then exiting the chamber himself, leaving Bilbo alone with Thorin and the princes.

Though there’s little strength to it, Thorin squeezes Bilbo’s hand back, and one corner of his mouth curls into what might be a smile. There’s nothing Bilbo can say, as the terror and anxiety of the last week catches up to him all in a great rush, as every word he wanted to share with Thorin becomes insignificant and incapable of expressing everything he means. They don’t speak, and Bilbo wonders if perhaps Thorin is not able to speak yet, so he distracts himself with the water pitcher beside the cot, filling up a cup and looking questioningly at Thorin. Without moving, Thorin conveys gratitude, and Bilbo tries his best to gently tip the cup to Thorin’s lips, hands shaking as he does. He accidentally tips too much water out at first, but rights himself, and Thorin drinks for a long minute.

When he’s done, Bilbo sets the cup back to the floor, and hesitates, knowing it’s been too long now that neither of them have spoken. He sees Fíli nudge Kíli with some hidden meaning, then the two of them rise, Fíli with some difficulty. “We’ll be back,” Fíli promises, his voice carefully neutral. “Lots to attend to, you know how it is.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, ashamed that his awkwardness had driven Thorin’s own nephews away, but Kíli silences him with a wink, and the pair exit far too casually. Bastards.

He’s trying to decide what to say when he realizes that Thorin himself is working up to talking, a clearly difficult battle. So Bilbo focuses on the feel of Thorin’s hand in his, running the pad of his thumb in circles over Thorin’s knuckles, while he waits. Trying to convey comfort and consolation and patience in these tiny, insignificant ministrations.

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, exhaling after each syllable, slipping into Khuzdul. “ _Ghiva...shel…_ my burglar... I am… so sorry, ah... _menu tessu….”_

“Shhh, Thorin,” Bilbo tries to soothe him, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Thorin looks at him, and Bilbo wonders if the Khuzdul was intentional, if Thorin had needed to say things he did not want Bilbo to hear. The thought unsettles Bilbo, and the last thing he needs at the moment is to be further unsettled. And yet the softness of Thorin’s tone, and the Westron he’d managed, the implication of _“my_ burglar”, sets off sparks in Bilbo’s chest, warming his veins. Perhaps it ignites his bravery as well, for Bilbo extends his free hand to brush a few strays hairs from Thorin’s brow, and lets his fingers stay there, touching Thorin’s temple only as a ghostly caress, but there nonetheless.

“You stayed,” whispers Thorin.

Bilbo tries his hardest not to blush at that, maintaining eye contact no matter how it burns him inside in the most wonderful ways. “Of course I did.”

“I… I dreamed of you,” Thorin confesses, voice gaining some strength now. “That you were here, by my side after all I’ve done to you….”

“I was here,” Bilbo answers. “I’ve nowhere else to be, unless you, unless you were to send me away.” Dear lord what part of his brain had decided that last part was an acceptable thing to say out loud?

But Thorin’s eyes widen, and his voice is so soft Bilbo nearly misses it but he’s certain he had not misheard. “Never, never again.”

Under Thorin’s gaze, warm and shining with affection, Bilbo quickly kisses his hand - not for the first time, but now Thorin is awake and watching, something reverent in his eyes that Bilbo’s certain mirrors his own expression. And after that, whatever walls of uncertainty and propriety seem to crumble neatly.

The very air seems to open up as they talk, and the need to share his insecurities overtakes Bilbo. “You know I betrayed you,” he says quietly.

Thorin frowns and squeezes Bilbo’s hand gently. “You did no such thing. It was… a terrible situation, and I dealt with it in a most dishonourable manner.”

“Thorin-” Bilbo exhales, because there’s nothing to say, he knows Thorin is right, but the self-disgust in Thorin’s voice prickles at Bilbo deep under his skin.

“Bilbo,” Thorin continues softly, and however Bilbo’s lungs expand with exhilaration, he tries to focus on the solemnity of Thorin’s words. “I committed a terrible crime against you at the Gate. Everything you did, I know you did for the good of all, and I hardly left you another choice. You saved me, and my people, and the people that could be my allies. I beg you not to judge yourself too harshly.”

“Then you mustn’t judge yourself as well,” says Bilbo. “And don’t make that face, I know how you feel about yourself. I’ve already forgiven you for that entire… situation. Can you not forgive yourself?”

A low rumble emanates from Thorin’s chest, a strange blend of amusement and affection and sarcastic self-deprecation. “I will try, _ghivashel._ ”

Bilbo laughs. “You’re perfectly aware I don’t know what that means.”

With effort, Thorin raises his free hand to clasp Bilbo’s in both of his, surrounding it in warmth and solidarity. “It means, Master Baggins, that you are my treasure above all other treasures. I gave in to folly once at the sight of great riches, enough that I nearly lost you and my own kin. Gold has lost its meaning to me. You, you are worth more than all the hoards of this mountain.”

Bilbo stilled, blood rushing to his face, ears burning, overwhelmed. “Goodness. Ah. Well, you certainly skipped right past honeycakes and ambrosia bouquets.”

Thorin tilted his head, amused. “Hmm?”

“Oh, um,” Bilbo stumbled, “just Shire traditions, there are levels and ways certain things are done, nothing quite so grand as ah, any of this. It doesn’t matter. I’m just, well, I didn’t see any of this coming, did you know?” Suddenly afraid his own intentions will be misread, he rushes to add, “Ah but, you know, it’s a pleasant sort of surprise? What I mean is, you are rather dear to me. Dearer than I’d ever imagined someone could be.”

The slow half-smile Thorin’s had for a bit now stretches full and with teeth, a sight that still knocks Bilbo breathless. “I would love to learn all your Shire traditions,” he says. “If honeycakes are what your people consider appropriate for courting, then I shall shower you in them.”

Burning, Bilbo hides his face in their entwined hands, something light and giddy threatening to erupt from him, as if he were but a tween. He hears himself mumbling something like “really quite unnecessary” and “oh, _courting_.” Bungo Baggins’s son courting foreign royalty, what a notion. That’s sure to be the talk of Hobbiton for at least half a century.

And yet, if Bilbo’s surprised by the reciprocation of his affections, he looks at Thorin and sees that the dwarf is positively _astounded_ , that relief battles for as much space in his eyes as all the love there. That Thorin had probably, _daftly_ decided that he doesn’t deserve to be cared for, and realizing that lights a spark of anger inside Bilbo, how _dare_ Thorin be that unkind to himself? And if Bilbo himself cannot fix that, he can damn well try.

Which is how Bilbo finds that he’s hauling himself up onto the cot, in the little space on the edge beside Thorin, and pressing a chaste kiss to Thorin’s nose, carefully avoiding the cut at the top of the bridge. And Thorin might only be half-alive but he manages to hook his arms around Bilbo’s waist to secure him in place, which Bilbo really cannot even pretend to mind. They both know that in Thorin’s current state of recovery, they’re in the rather unique situation where Bilbo could possibly overpower Thorin if he tried, but goodness, what would ever be the point?

So he kisses Thorin properly, exhaling relief from every tense bone in his body. He focuses as much as he can on supporting himself so as not to put weight on Thorin’s bruised and broken body, but it’s a difficult task to do anything but revel in Thorin’s _thereness_.

Bilbo knows something is about to burst out of him, he shakes and quivers and then whispers, “I love you,” because Eru willing, all the questioning and pining and unspoken anxieties between them _have to end,_ and after he says it the first time and Thorin grins, whispering something back in Khuzdul, then it’s so easy. “Love you, love you,” says Bilbo between kisses, melting, letting himself relax into the reality that somehow they are working toward being okay, finally.

 _Ghivashel. Azyungal, kurduh._ He doesn’t know what anything means, but he knows what Thorin’s saying. His hand finds Thorin’s heart to rest on and he thinks nothing’s ever been so wonderful as knowing that Thorin’s as lost in all of _this_ as he is.

Then, because Bilbo’s brain must inevitably betray him, he interrupts all of this loveliness with, “Has anyone updated you about, um, the state of Erebor right now?”

Thorin groans at the intermission, a bone-deep lovely sound. “They did. Dain was in here when I first woke… It took some convincing for him to leave me alone with you. I fear I’ve ignited at least 200 years’ worth of teasing.”

Bilbo chuckles at that. “You’ve been awake an hour and you’re already shirking responsibilities to be with me, hmm? This is not a good way to start your kinging.”

“Kinging?”

“Shush.” And Bilbo makes him.

After yet more kisses, Bilbo remember’s Thorin’s state of fragility and pulls away, only to meet a whining protest. Compromising, he tucks himself into the crook of Thorin’s shoulders, fingers gently tapping with Thorin’s heartbeat, still fascinated with the proof of Thorin’s very much _aliveness._

“Dain did tell me about how the week has been,” Thorin murmurs. Resting with his ear pressed to Thorin’s throat, Bilbo can feel Thorin’s voice as much as he hears it. “I will have to meet with Bard and the Elf king later, probably as soon as I’m able to sit up. I’m told both have been rather graciously reasonable in the aftermath of the battle… I have many amends to make, after the Arkenstone debacle.”

“Where is the Arkenstone?” Bilbo wonders.

“Hmm?” Thorin pauses. “You know, I don’t actually know. Bard has probably traded it back already. I’ll have to speak to Dain about it. It’ll have to be put in the treasure hold of course; my people recognize it as the power to rule.”

“You’ve always been their king, with or without it,” says Bilbo, trying to manage as much conviction as possible. Even with Thorin’s forgiveness, the mere mention of that stone makes him uneasy.

Thorin tilts his head to look down at Bilbo. “I have not always deserved that, but yes. I know. Please, do not be so afraid to speak of the stone.” He hesitates, struggling to explain, and Bilbo does what he can to look patient and receiving. “It remains an heirloom of my people, but that is all. Please know that it no longer holds my mind.”

Bilbo nods. “I believe you. I do.”

They settle back into comfort, as Bilbo details him with all he knows of what’s been going on, which, he admits, is precious little. But he makes sure that Thorin knows how well Kíli has been handling everything, only satisfied when he sees Thorin’s eyes shine with pride. “He’s young and I know he can be rash, but I do believe he is well cut out for this,” says Bilbo. “He could be a great king one day, or king’s ambassador.”

“Pushing for me to abdicate already, are you?” Thorin teases, but there’s an understanding there. And Bilbo hopes that Thorin understands that, while he wholeheartedly believes in Thorin’s ability to be an honourable king, he also believes in Thorin’s right to live a different life if he chooses. One away from all these fears and ghosts.

But, Bilbo decides, that’s a conversation for another time. Whatever the future holds, he can at least accept the certainty that Thorin is _his_. That wherever his home may be, it will not be empty and devoid of meaning. Never again.

“How are you, _amrâlimê_ _?_ ” Thorin asks after some time.

And Bilbo presses a kiss to Thorin’s collarbones, smiling.

“I think I’m quite ready for another adventure.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Thranduil's a bit of a dick but he's genuinely good and means well. I can't write him any other way, he's gonna be a bit of an asshole. I don't make the rules.
> 
> 2\. I tend to write Bilbo as an anxious fuck because I too am an anxious fuck. Part of why I love him so much is that he is very much afraid of a good many things and yet finds his bravery anyway. So I don't think of him as just a dithering anxious mess, I think of him as a dithering anxious mess with the heart of a lion and more endurance than anyone gives him credit for.
> 
> 3\. This fic was originally going to evolve into a whole "they fake their deaths and go live in the Shire" thing but I just didn't ever... get there. We'll leave it up as a future possibility within this canon.
> 
> 4\. The last sentence. Is so. Sappy. I fucking had to. I couldn't not do it. I just rewatched the ROTK finale and I needed to do it.
> 
> 5\. Elvish translations (from arwen-undomiel.com)  
> -"mae g’ovannen" = "well met"  
> -"Le fael" = "thank you" (literal: "you are generous")  
> -"Boe i’waen. Na lû e-govaned vîn." = "I must go. Until next we meet."
> 
> 6\. Khuzdul translations neo-khuzdul-translator.tumblr.com)  
> -"Ghivashel" = "treasure of all treasures"  
> -"Menu tessu" = "you're my everything"  
> -"Azyungal" = "love of all loves"  
> -"Kurduh" = "my heart"  
> -"Amrâlimê" = "my love"  
> (I'm sorry I am such a sucker for literally all Dwarvish terms of endearment)
> 
> 7\. Lastly, I want to thank everyone who slugs through this whole angsty mess. I'm sorry if the end seems rushed or if I wrapped things up too neatly... I just fucking want these two idiots to be happy. If you didn't think it was terrible, please leave a comment to let me know! Or even if you thought it was awful! I don't mind!
> 
> I'm going to stop talking now.


End file.
